


Albedo

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, The Unremarkable House (X-Files)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26718601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: Written for the prompt "scully, snow, jellybeans, fox, guitar"
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 3
Kudos: 59





	Albedo

He sits on the porch next to a little propane heater, gazing out at the Winter Hexagon as it slowly rolls above the horizon. It is the cusp of twilight, the lavender sky tinted with pale green edges that streak the snow with Monet delicacy. From the iPod on the table comes the friendly twang of CCR, all rhythm guitar and the Cajun affectations of John Fogerty. Mulder sips at a hot toddy, more warmed whiskey and honey than anything else. He tosses a handful of birdseed across the low porch wall and a flurry of chickadees seems to materialize from nowhere, squabbling and pecking on the blank page of the lawn.

They take wing when Scully trudges through the snow from around the back, shin deep in her heavy boots. She looks a bit like them, with a sleek black cap on her head and a thick black scarf knotted below her white face, though her cheeks are slapped rosy by the cold. She has her hands jammed into the pockets of her coat, a trim down cocoon, leaning forward as she walks. 

Mulder holds a second mug up. “Looks like you could use this,” he calls. 

She pauses to look at him, head tipped to the side with her long braid swinging out. Her lush mouth is pursed as she bites at the inside of her cheek, eyes bright as Sirius and sometimes just as remote. “Is that _Proud Mary_?”

“ROLLIN’,” he sings along. “ROLLIN’ ON THE RIIIIIVAH.”

Scully wrinkles her nose in distaste. “If you had a day job, I’d tell you not to quit it.”

He pouts, but holds the mug up again. “Come warm up. Your fox all sorted out?”

She nods, face canted towards the now-sapphire sky. Artemis in _lux brumalis._ “I gave him some marrow bones."

The fox is big and glossy, with a lair in the bracken by the split rail fence. He is a wild creature, won’t come closer than thirty feet, but Scully leaves him morsels. She loves the vivid flag of his tail, the elegant contrast of his black stockings. It has become her pleasure to find choice treats for him, to keep his fur lustrous and his belly too sated for the poultry house.

“We should build a snowman tomorrow,” Mulder suggests. “A good old fashioned one with a carrot nose.”

Scully scoops a handful of snow in her black-gloved hand. “It’s a good consistency for a snowman, though no fun to walk through. An old fashioned one needs a top hat, though. And coal.” She hums a bar of _Frosty._

Mulder considers this. “I have a baseball cap from Cradock Marine,” he offers. “It’s black, do you think that’s close enough?”

“Needs must. But we don’t have coal, either.”

“Well, you were a very good girl this year.” She had been particularly delightful on Christmas Eve, clad only in shadows and flickering light before a roaring fire. 

She narrows her eyes like she knows what he’s thinking, but doesn’t play along. “You can pick some black jellybeans out of that bag in the pantry.”

“This will be better than an old fashioned snowman, Scully. Though maybe we should just go full _Calvin and Hobbes_ and build snow zombies or something. Here, come up on the porch.” He beckons gently, as though luring a wary animal. In his deepest places, he is afraid she is still not yet tame either. She is doe-eyed, slender-limbed. She has bolted before.

Scully thumps up the steps, moon boots shedding snow in her wake. She accepts the steaming mug from him and he thinks that in fairy tales, it is the third try which binds. 

She sits next to him on the wicker loveseat, cuddling close. Her head is bowed over her mug for a sip, curls of steam rising over her eyelashes. “Mulder!” she says, looking up. “Do you even have any water in this?”

He shrugs. “It’s not an exact recipe.”

She takes another swallow. “I’m a pretty cheap date, you know. You’ll have to carry me upstairs if I finish this.”

He hopes so; the weight of her in his arms taps some caveman primalness she’d shoot him for if ever expressed. He likes the idea of her hair spilling over his arm, her lovely face soft with drowsy whiskey eyes. “Tomorrow I’ll make a buttered rum that’ll knock your socks off.”

‘Socks or pants?” she asks, a sly smile.

He waggles his eyebrows. “How about you just don’t put any on?”

Scully puts her mug on the little table. “I love the sky out here,” she says, dreamy. She points a gloved finger towards the vault of the heavens. “The stars are so clear. Procyon, Rigel. Capella.”

Mulder is proud of their house, their foxes and pines and sky. He is proud that she loves it. He finds his throat unexpectedly tight and reaches for her other hand.

“Good,” he says.

Scully squeezes his fingers, then lets go to take her hat off. She unwinds the elastic from the end of her braid, shaking the plait loose. Her hair tumbles in waves like the Virgin Queen. She curls onto her side with her head in his lap, looking up at him.

He is afraid to touch her, to talk, to break a gathering spell.

She must see it in his eyes, must see _something_ , because she uses her teeth to tug her glove off so she can reach up and touch his face. “I’m home,” she says.

Mulder kisses her palm and she drops her hand, smiling, closing her eyes. Her lashes brush her cheeks.

Beyond them the gloaming deepens into night, skeleton branches hold fragile treasures of snow, the fox gnaws bones in his burrow. In Taurus, Aldebaran glows dimly red. 

He strokes her hair until her breathing slows. He carries her upstairs.


End file.
